


I Just Want You For My Own (More Than You Could Ever Know)

by yodasyoyo



Series: Sterek Christmas Fics [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Barista Stiles Stilinski, Derek Cooks, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Happy Christmas, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Derek, Oblivious Stiles, Scent Marking, Sharing Clothes, basically all my favorite tropes distilled into one fic, don't expect any kind of plot, gratuitous cuddling, it's fluff for fluffs sake, schmoopy as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8735791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: “What is with that sweater, dude?”Derek ducks his head to look at it, abashed. “Uh- Mrs Hernandez knitted it for me. It’s an early Christmas gift.” He smooths it down self-consciously.Stiles cocks an eyebrow.“What? She’s my neighbor and sometimes I-” Derek trails off. Stiles’ other eyebrow rises to join the first, and Derek sighs. “Sometimes I help her carry her groceries."Of course he does. One day maybe Stiles will stop being in love with Derek Hale, but today is not that day.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is pretty much written (I'm in the process of finishing the final chapter, but it's pretty much done). So, unless something sad or terrible happens to me personally, I will be publishing a chapter every Saturday between now and Christmas.
> 
> It's basically a collection of all my favorite tropes ever because - why the hell not? 
> 
> Happy Christmas Sterek fandom!

“So, you’re saying I’m your last resort?” Stiles asks. He tilts the cup in his hand and slowly pours in steamed milk. _All I want for Christmas_ starts to play through the tinny speakers behind him  and he can’t help but sigh, because all _he_ wants for Christmas is standing right in front of him, complete with trademark leather jacket, impenetrable scowl and, for some reason, a garish Christmas sweater that’s a thousand times more attractive than it has any right to be. He’s fucking screwed.

Derek purses his lips, eyebrows bunching together. “How on earth did you get _that_ from what I just said?”

“Jeez, Derek. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the constipated look on your face, maybe it’s the fact that you opened with the words: ‘Stiles, I don’t want to have to ask this, but everyone else is busy-’”

“That doesn’t mean you’re my last resort.”

“It doesn’t exactly scream first choice either.” Stiles frowns down at the latte heart he’s just created without even thinking about it. A heart _._  A _freaking_ heart. All these years and he’s so stupidly obvious sometimes. Not that Derek ever seems to notice. He huffs out a sigh. “What is with that sweater, dude?”

Derek ducks his head to look at it, abashed. “Uh- Mrs Hernandez knitted it for me. It’s an early Christmas gift.” He smooths it down self-consciously.

Stiles cocks an eyebrow.

“What? She’s my neighbor and sometimes I-” Derek trails off. Stiles’ other eyebrow rises to join the first and Derek sighs. “Sometimes I help her carry her groceries.”

 _Of course he does._ One day maybe Stiles will stop being in love with Derek Hale, but today is not that day.

He slides the mug towards him irritably, and foam slops everywhere. Derek frowns. “Stiles-”

“Okay, Sourwolf. I’m on a break in, like, ten minutes. Go lurk quietly over there in the corner. Try not to scare any customers. I’ll come over as soon as I’m free.”

Derek’s frown deepens, but he takes his drink and slinks away to a table in the far corner. Stiles spends the next ten minutes trying to ignore him and not notice how good his scruff looks today, or the way his ridiculously tight jeans cling to his thighs, or the way he pulls faces at the grouchy toddler in the highchair nearby until the kid starts gurgling with laughter, or, well... any of the other stupidly perfect things about him.

Because it is stupid.

It’s all so stupid.

“Hey, are you even listening to me? I _said_ , can I get a grande, quad, nonfat, one-pump, no-whip, mocha?” a woman calls, pulling him back to the job at hand.

“Yeah. Sorry. Yeah, of course.”  He grabs a cup and stomps across to the espresso machine. Across the room, Derek takes another sip of his drink; his tongue flicks over his lips, chasing stray foam, eyes fluttering shut in contentment. Stiles grip tightens on the cup in his hand, knuckles whitening. He doesn’t want to do this any more. Doesn’t want to be in love with someone who is never going to see him as anything but a friend.

He’s so stupid.

So _fucking_ stupid.

 

-

 

“So a pack are coming through town?” Stiles says, head tilted to one side. He’s trying to understand, he is, but God knows Derek doesn’t make this shit easy.

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”

“Well are you going to explain yourself? My break is only fifteen minutes long, and you’ve spent the last ten glaring at your coffee and waffling about pack etiquette.” Stiles leans back, balancing his chair on two legs, and casts an appraising glance at Derek. “Just get to the point, some of us have work to do.”

Derek’s mouth tightens in annoyance. A muscle in his jaw ticks furiously. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

“ _Fine_.” Except it obviously isn’t. Derek’s still staring down at his coffee cup, mouth all pinched and disapproving.

“Tick-tock, Der,” Stiles says, tapping his finger against his wrist, where a watch would be if he actually owned one. “Tick-fucking-tock.”

Derek looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. His eyebrows are now officially one thick black line. Like someone has drawn across his forehead with a magic marker. He shuts his eyes, resigned, face all screwed up like he’s braced for a crash.

“I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

Stiles' full body flinch means he over-balances on his chair and goes crashing to the floor. And, ouch-  hopefully that thing that just went crunch isn’t his coccyx. He literally cannot afford any more time off work at the moment.

He scrambles back into his chair, flushed and flustered and a little bruised. Everyone in the coffee shop is staring at him. He throws them a nervous grin, pulls his chair right up to the table and leans in. “Are you shitting me?” he hisses.

Derek’s scowl could not get any scowlier if it tried. He shrugs moodily.

“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

Derek shrugs again. The tips of his ears are slowly turning pink. “You said you wanted me to get to the point. That’s the point. It would only be for one night. That’s all.”

“Yes, okay. But me, Derek. _Me?_ Really?”

Derek glares.

Stiles taps his fingers against the table, agitated.

“Are you possessed?” he asks. “It feels like you might be. Are you being mind-controlled by an evil witch or…” he wracks his brain for any possible explanation. “Did you hit your head harder than any of us realized when we were fighting those leprechauns last week? Is that what this is? Are you concussed? Or, just a minute… Am _I_ concussed? Is this a dream? It’s a dream isn’t it.” He pinches himself. “Fuck. Okay. Not a dream.”

Across from him, Derek’s frown gets deeper, his blush spreads from the tips of his ears to high on his cheeks. It’s a sure sign he’s embarrassed, and in Stiles’ experience, Derek is one of those people who sublimates embarrassment into a kind of cold, repressed fury. “Forget it.” Derek bites out, going to stand.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Stiles exclaims, reaching out and grabbing Derek’s leather-clad forearm. “Woah. I never said I wouldn’t do it.” Against all odds Derek actually stops and turns to look at him, and for one split second his expression is open, vulnerable in a way that Stiles rarely gets to see. Then just like that it’s gone, and he’s schooled his features back into impassivity. Stiles knows what he saw though. Fuck.

Is he actually going to consider it?

Is he?

Okay, hand on heart, he already knows the answer to that one.

The truth is, as sad and desperate as it sounds, he finds it very difficult to say no to Derek. If Derek needs him, he’s always gonna be there. It’s just the way it is.

Jesus, he’s so pathetic.

There’s one thing he needs to know before he agrees though.

“Why me?”

Derek glowers down at where Stiles’ hand is touching his arm. “I told you,” he says sulkily, “everyone else is busy with family, and besides they’re all dating other people- it would be weird.”

Of course.

Of _fucking_ course.

You see?

He was right the first time: Last _fucking_ resort.

Stiles snatches his hand back like he’s been burned, and swallows around the huge lump that’s appeared in his throat.

Stupid. Stupid. He’s so fucking stupid.

He manages a brittle laugh. “Of course! Yeah. I remember you said that. You definitely said that.”

There’s an awkward silence, broken by the sound of someone, somewhere in this godforsaken coffee shop dropping a glass that smashes into a thousand pieces, or maybe it’s just the sound of his own heart breaking.

“That’s my cue to get back to work,” he says, jumping to his feet. His voice comes out a little rougher then he’d like and he can’t bring himself to look at Derek. He just can’t.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice sounds softer, uncertain, and nope, no, _no way_. That is not allowed, okay? Stiles does not need his pity. He should just say no, tell Derek to find someone else and save himself a little heartache for once. “You don’t have to,” Derek says, “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

And you see it’s shit like this that keeps him coming back every _single_ time. Because even when he tries to tell himself that Derek is nothing but a selfish, sarcastic asshole, he keeps proving Stiles wrong, again and again and again.

He forces another short bark of laughter. “Let me know when you need me, and I’ll be there, okay?” He gets up from the table, shoots Derek the finger guns, not quite meeting his eyes. 

Of course he’ll be there for Derek.

He’ll always be there.

That’s what he does.

 

-

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Huzzah :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up a collective noun for leprechauns, because I looked on line and I couldn't find one. If there is one, and my google-fu has failed me, then please let me know so that i can amend it accordingly.

That night, he stumbles through the front door of the apartment he shares with Erica in downtown Beacon Hills, exhausted and heart-bruised.

Today has been the goddamn cherry on top of a cluster-fuck of a week.

It started when a grasp of leprechauns decided to set up home in the abandoned bank and wreak havoc on the town meaning he had to spend every spare minute researching in between attending lectures at BHU and covering shifts at the coffee shop. He has a folklore paper that he managed to get an extension on, but it’s due soon, and he still hasn’t finished it. Also, Christmas is less than a week away and he is woefully unprepared. He hasn’t written a goddamn card for anyone, let alone thought about buying gifts.

He wanders through to his bedroom and changes into a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants. His stomach starts growling at him, so he goes back through to the kitchen, grabs a box of Lucky Charms and eats a handful, they’re stale but at least they’re food. There’s a note from Erica stuck to the fridge. Apparently she’s staying at Boyd’s tonight, which means he has the place to himself.

The kitchen is a warzone. Neither of them have washed the dishes in a week. He doesn’t even have a bowl for his cereal and he has no fucking energy to sort that shit out now.

He goes through to the living room, shoves half a dozen books about magic off the couch and slumps onto it; he crams another handful of cereal into his mouth and looks about himself.

The living room is worse than the kitchen. There are plates with congealed food, takeout boxes and at least twelve half-empty cups of coffee littering the room. There are piles of books and magazines everywhere and, on the coffee table, stacks of unopened mail, mainly bills. (Both he and Erica are convinced that receiving official looking mail is one of the _most_ stressful things about trying to adult properly, which is why they both procrastinate about opening it).

In fairness, he’s not normally this much of a slob, but the week has not been kind, and just when he thought it was getting better, Derek had to come into the coffee shop this afternoon and casually ruin his life.

Goddammit.

He needs to relax for half an hour, that’s all. Just half an hour to switch his brain off and then maybe he’ll clean the apartment or write his paper or _something_.

He has to allow himself some down time. It’s self-care is what it is.

He digs the X-Box controller out from under a stack of magazines and crams another handful of cereal into his mouth.

Of course, that’s when his phone pings to tell him he has a text.

Derek.

He has a text from Derek.

He stares down at it.

 **>** **We need to talk. Come over.**

And the thing is, he’s halfway out of his chair before he checks himself, reminds himself that he has needs _too,_ and that’s okay. He sinks back down on to the couch and taps out a message.

**< Dude, I literally just got home. Too tired to move. You can come here if you want.**

He flings the phone to one side, fires up Halo 5 and tries to lose himself in the game. A short while later there’s a knock at the door; Stiles pauses the game, gets up, goes to the door and peers through the peephole.

Derek’s face glares back at him.

“Huh,” Stiles says, unlocking the door to let him in. “You came.” He isn't sure why he’s so surprised.

“You told me to.”

“Wasn’t sure you would though.”

Derek purses his lips. “We need to talk about this whole… pretending to date thing.”

“Ah, yes.” Stiles smiles weakly. “Of course we do. Come in.” He shuffles to the side and after a moment’s hesitation Derek steps past him, shucks his jacket and toes his boots off. “You want a drink?” Stiles offers.

“Water’s fine. Don’t worry, I can make it.” Derek disappears off to the kitchen and Stiles closes the front door, locks it, then rests his head against it for a moment and counts to ten.

He can do this.

He can totally do this.

-

“So who are this pack and why do they need to think we’re dating?” Stiles asks through a mouthful of cereal. He’s slumped on the couch and Derek’s standing over him, clutching a glass of water to his chest like a shield, and surveying the living room with an air of gloomy disapproval.

“Do you and Erica ever clean?”

“Rude. Also, none of your business.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue the point, just pouts moodily at the mess. It’s pissing Stiles off.

“You can sit down you know,” he says pettishly.

Derek side-eyes the only armchair. It has a mostly empty pizza box on it and a slumping pile of notes balanced precariously on one arm. He picks up the pizza box like it’s an unexploded bomb and places it on the coffee table. Then carefully gathers up the papers and looks at Stiles in a silent question.

“Anywhere,” Stiles says, glumly. “It’s my leprechaun research.”

Derek piles the notes on top of the pizza box and finally takes a seat. He stares balefully at Stiles. “You look tired.”

“I _am_ tired.”

“You work too hard.”

“You guys need me to work hard.” Stiles points out. And they do. His research saves lives, dammit. Derek looks like he wants to argue the point, and Stiles is so, _so,_ not in the mood for that. He changes the subject quickly. “Why does it matter to this pack who you’re dating?”

Derek shifts uncomfortably and looks away. “It’s to do with pack dynamics.”

“Pack dynamics?” Stiles quirks an eyebrow. “That’s an impressively vague and probably meaningless answer. Care to elaborate?”

“It just sends a stronger message if the Alpha has a mate.” He frowns at the cereal box in Stiles’ hand. “Tell me that isn’t your dinner.”

Stiles sits bolt upright in his chair and flings the offending cereal to one side sending marshmallows skittering across the floor. “A _mate?_ I thought you just wanted to pretend to _date_ me. You never said mate. There has been no mention of _mating._ ”

Derek’s mouth goes tight, the muscle in his jaw ticks furiously. “That isn't- That’s just the traditional word- You’re reading too much into- I didn’t mean-” He can’t seem to complete the sentence and the tips of his ears are turning pink.

“Hmph,” Stiles huffs, narrowing his eyes. “So let me get this straight, you think this pack could pose a threat to us if they don’t see you as a strong Alpha who’s managed to settle down find a-” he can’t bring himself to use the ‘m’ word, “-a _partner_ , and you’re telling me _I’m_ your solution?” It sounds really, _really_ unlikely, even to Stiles who has a vested interest in desperately _wanting it to be true._

Derek shrugs, which is neither an agreement or a denial, and Stiles’ bullshit detector starts pinging in earnest. He narrows his eyes.

“I don’t buy it,” he says. “Who are this pack anyway? Tell me the whole story.”

“That is the whole story.”

The thing about Derek is, he’s a terrible liar. Awful, genuinely awful.

It’s actually one of the most endearing things about him.

And normally, well, _normally,_  it kind of makes Stiles wanna wrap him up in a blanket, feed him chicken noodle soup, pet his hair and tell him that his strengths lie in other things. Things like eyebrow semaphore, unnecessary backflips and (if Stiles is going to be honest and not a complete asshole), taking care of his pack with gruff tenderness, patience and gentle pride.

The key word here though is _normally_ , because Stiles doesn’t have time for Derek’s terrible lying schtick at the moment. No, at this precise moment, Stiles is pissed.

“If you want my help, you tell me the whole truth. If you don’t, you can find someone else to be your snuggle-bunny when this pack comes calling.” Derek’s eyebrows bunch guiltily. “Don’t lie to me,” Stiles says, “I don’t deserve it.”

Derek glares. The effect of it somewhat diminished by the fact that the tips of his ears are now crimson.

“I mean it,” Stiles warns.

“Fine.” Derek grinds out. “The Harris pack are old friends of my family. Ellie, the Alpha and her mate Carl are passing through on their way back from LA a couple of days before Christmas, and they keep- they keep asking me who I’m dating. When I’m going to find a mate and settle down, make the pack more secure.” Derek gets up, agitated, and starts to pace. “I keep making excuses, but they keep pushing. Then they offered to set me up on a blind date-” His nose wrinkles in disgust.

“So you told them you were already seeing someone,” Stiles finishes. “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Okay. I didn’t know _that._ But I knew you weren’t telling the truth.” He points an accusing finger at Derek. “You were going to let me think they were a threat to the pack. When all you really want is someone to rescue you from an awkward social situation.”

Derek scowls. But Stiles is adept at reading his scowls after many years of covert observation, and he recognizes this as scowl configuration #65: _I have been caught in a lie, and I am feeling guilty,_ so he has nothing to worry about.

“You should have just said what it was, dude. I still would’ve helped you. You don’t need to pretend it’s some big crisis. I’ve always got your back, you know that.”

Derek’s expression morphs into scowl #14: _Stiles is being nice to me and I don’t know what to do,_ which Stiles has always found adorable. It makes his stomach flip. He ignores it.

“So, what’s the plan, Snuggle-bunny?” He says, leaning forward and waggling his eyebrows.

The look Derek gives him is painfully dry.

“You don’t like Snuggle-bunny?”

And there’s scowl #2: _Stiles is being annoying._ Unfortunately he’s extremely familiar with that one.

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, “We’ll discuss pet names later.”

“There will be no pet names.”

“Reaaally?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. And yeah, that’s a hard ‘no’ to pet names, which is a shame,  because Stiles has a million of ‘em lined up, just waiting to be used. “So,” he says, changing the subject. “I can’t believe they tried to set you up, dude. That’s not cool.”

Derek looks pained. “They worry about me.”

Which Stiles gets, he does. Somewhere along the line he basically became President, VP and Treasurer of the ‘Let's Worry about Derek Hale’ Society. Which means Derek’s safety and happiness are among his primary concerns. It’s led him to push and nag and harass Derek in a variety of ways over the years, call him out on bad ideas, bicker with him ceaselessly, follow him blindly into dangerous situations and occasionally menace people who might be a threat to him. There’s one part of Derek’s life he has never interfered with though, not once. Derek’s romantic history reads like a crossover between a greek tragedy and a bad Lifetime movie. To the best of Stiles’ knowledge, Derek hasn’t dated, even casually, in about six years, not since the Jennifer debacle. And Stiles, who likes to think he has learned a lot about matters of the heart since his all-consuming crush on Lydia, has gone out of his way to respect Derek’s boundaries. 

It’s one of the key reasons why Stiles has never, in all these years, pushed his feelings onto Derek. Never once declared his undying love or bought an extravagant gift or _anything_ that might _ever_ conceivably make Derek uncomfortable around him. He’s turned supportive friendship into a fucking art form. He realized a long time ago that he cared enough to want to see Derek happy on his own terms, that he’d do anything to let that happen, even rein his own feelings in.

He feels a familiar surge of protectiveness flare in his chest. “They should worry about you with their mouth’s shut. It’s nobody’s business if you don’t want to date.”

Derek looks down at his hands, shoulders hunched. “They mean well. I’m just not- it’s complicated.” Which is the understatement of the fucking century and Stiles isn’t going to poke at that. No sir. Not even if he was wearing a hazmat suit and carrying a ten foot pole. “So, will you help me?” Derek asks. He’s staring down at the cup of water in his hands, like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“You could tell them to mind their own business.”

“They’re good people. I don’t want to offend them.”

“Are you sure you really want _me_ ? I mean you- you could ask _anyone_.”

Derek meets his eyes for the first time. “I trust you.”

And that makes something blossom in Stiles’ chest, warm and hopeful and hopelessly fond. Something that _aches._

Stiles plucks at a loose thread on his t-shirt. “So I’m- I’m not a last resort then?”

Derek shakes his head. “No. I never meant to imply that you were.”

A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of Stiles mouth. “Okay, big guy. I’ll pretend to be your boo. When do they get here? What do we need to do to make it work?”

“They’re passing through the day before Christmas Eve, I said I’d make dinner, and as for what we need to do-” Derek looks thoughtful. “Scent,” he says, eventually, “that’s the biggest thing. They’ll know we’re not-” he waves a hand. “If we don’t smell right.”

“Okaaay. So you mean like share clothes? Or are we actually gonna have to, y’know, cuddle and shit?”

“Probably both. They’ll be here in two days and we don’t smell much alike.”

Stiles sighs. It’s a bit of a kick in the teeth to be honest. Two days snuggling Derek would be bliss if he thought it meant something. Still, he’s agreed to this now.

“Better get on with it then.” Stiles pats the spot on the couch next to him. Derek seems to war with himself for a moment, before getting up and perching near him on the edge of the couch. Near, but very deliberately not touching. “Dude, I may not smell _that_ great after a double shift, but I haven’t been rolling around in wolfsbane either.”

Derek grits his teeth in a grim smile, lifts his arm in an aborted motion, then drops it, then lifts it again and wraps it around Stiles’ shoulders with a deep sigh. It feels like an iron bar, heavy and unyielding.

And this is no good at all.

They’re both so fucking tense.

“Maybe if we just-” Stiles shuffles backwards and Derek follows until they’re both seated, pressed side to side, their backs against the couch, Derek’s arm still round Stiles’ shoulders.

It’s awkward.

So _fucking_ awkward.

Stiles is painfully aware of his own racing heart, his own breathing. God, his breathing. It’s so loud. Is he breathing too much? Not enough? Is he giving himself away? Maybe if he counts how many breaths he takes, or tries to match his breathing to Derek’s, that will work. Except Derek is sitting there like he’s carved out of marble. He doesn’t seem to be breathing at all.

“Stop panicking, Stiles.”

“I’m not.”

He doesn’t need to look to know Derek’s frowning.

“We- _I_ just have to get used to it.” Stiles turns his head, risking a glance at Derek and takes a deep breath. _God,_ Derek smells good. Is that soap? Or cologne? Or just his natural scent? He shifts closer and breathes in, trying to decide.

“Are you sniffing me?”

He jerks back as far as he can with Derek’s arm round his shoulder. “What? No!”

Derek pulls his arm away and sighs, pained. “Look if you aren’t comfortable, I’ll-”

Stiles doesn’t give him the chance to finish the sentence, he’s too afraid it will end with ‘... ask someone else.’ Instead he cuts in, “It’s fine. I’m comfortable. I’m just- adjusting. We haven’t done this before, y’know?”

“I know.” Derek says, “But-”

“I want to.” Stiles says, firmly. “I want to help you. Now snuggle me, Sourwolf. I can’t scent mark myself.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but he wraps his arm back around Stiles’ shoulders and this time, Stiles tries to relax.

The contact is awkward at first. How could it not be? Stiles has spent _years_ very pointedly not _allowing_ himself to touch Derek and it takes a while for them to work out how to fit together, how to arrange themselves comfortably, Stiles can’t work out what to do with his elbows or where he’s supposed to put his head. Eventually, Derek heaves a put upon sigh and hauls Stiles back until they’re sprawled on the couch, Derek lying on his back with Stiles tucked against his chest. And that’s nice. That’s easy, or _easier_ at least.

“I was gonna play Halo,” Stiles murmurs, “but you should tell me about this pack instead, so that we’re prepared. I’ll even feed you.” He feels around with one hand for the box of Lucky Charms on the floor and, finding it, lifts it up and shakes it. “They’re magically delicious.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth lifts in a smile, he takes a deep breath and Stiles feels it, feels the way the tension leaves Derek’s body on the exhale. Like he’s finally giving in to this. “Okay,” he says, softly. “Let’s do that.”

“So,” Stiles says through a yawn. “What do I need to know?”

“Uh- Ellie Harris was my mom’s roommate at college, they were best friends back before either of them were Alphas. Ellie introduced my parents to each other, she met my dad at a bar one night and said she knew straight away that he and my mom would be perfect for each other.” He chuckles, traces a lazy circle against Stiles arm with the calloused pad of his thumb. “She was right, within a week they were dating and within a year they were engaged. We always used to meet up with Ellie and Carl over the holidays back when I was a kid. They were kind of like our honorary aunt and uncle.”

“And now?”

“Now they’re just trying to look out for me. I think they feel bad that they couldn’t do more for me when- well-”

“So you and Laura didn’t go to them for help, after the fire I mean?”

“We didn’t go to anyone we knew. We didn’t know who to trust, and besides, we didn’t want to make anyone else a target.”

Stiles nods thoughtfully. “That makes sense, I guess. So, what do I need to know about them?”

Derek sighs, “Like I said, Ellie’s the Alpha. Carl is human, he’s also the emissary for their pack. They’ve got three kids and they live on a ranch up near Redding, with the rest of their pack. We used to go stay there sometimes, other times they’d come down to see us. Ellie can be a little overbearing, but she means well.”

“Hmm,” Stiles hums sleepily. “You sure you don’t want me to have words with her?”

He can feel himself drifting. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just he’s so warm and snug, cuddled up to Derek like this. It’s surprising really, how instinctive this is despite years of avoiding close physical contact. It seems natural to feel Derek’s chest move as he laughs, to hear the steady beat of his heart, feel the heat of him bleeding through his henley, warming Stiles to his core. It feels right for them  to be this close, this safe, this content. 

“What would you say to her?” Derek asks softly.

“Tell her to back off. Leave you alone,” Stiles yawns. “I’m serious. She shouldn’t be pressuring you.” His eyes drift shut, lulled by the gentle rhythm of Derek’s breathing, the way his fingers trace idle patterns against the skin of Stiles’ arm.

“So you’re gonna take on an Alpha for me, huh?”

“Why not?” Stiles hums sleepily. “I-I could y’know.”

“I know,” Derek murmurs eventually, “I know you could.” His arms tighten around Stiles.

And Stiles isn’t sure how long they lay there like that, all he knows is that at some point he slips into sleep, gently, sweetly, and more deeply than he has all week.

The last thing he remembers is the faint brush of lips to his forehead, like a whisper of a kiss.

It’s probably his imagination.

-

When the alarm on Stiles’ phone wakes him the next morning, he’s lying in his own bed, comforter tucked round him. He has no memory of getting there and Derek is nowhere to be seen. He lies there blinking up at the ceiling, trying to remember, but try as he might, the only thing he recalls is falling asleep on the couch, sprawled across Derek.

He stumbles out of bed to the bathroom, has the world’s quickest shower, pulls on fresh clothes, then runs to the kitchen and grabs a bowl of cereal. He’s pouring cereal into an actual _clean_ bowl, with milk and eating it with a _spoon_ when he registers that something is very very wrong. The kitchen is clean. Tidy. The dishes have been washed, dried and put away. The trash has been taken out, the recycling sorted.

What the fuck?

He clutches the cereal bowl to his chest and wanders through to the living room.  The books have all been stacked in tidy piles. All his notes are sorted neatly.

Someone has vacuumed. Goddamn _vacuumed._ What the actual fuck?

He goes to check and, no, the door to Erica’s room is ajar, the bedroom empty. She’s not home yet.

Which means…

Well. No. That can’t be true.

There is no way Derek cleaned his house while he slept.

Is there?

_Is there?_

Because if there is, then he isn’t sure how he feels. Cared for? Creeped out? Happy? Guilty? Confused? All of the above?

His second alarm goes off. The one that tells him he needs to leave the house to get to work, like, _now._

He dumps his cereal bowl in the kitchen, tugs on shoes and a jacket and runs to his car.

It isn’t until later that he actually checks his phone properly and finds one message from Derek waiting for him:

**> Come to mine after work. I’ll cook.**

He stares at it blankly, but it doesn’t go away. Just sits there. Taunting him. He slips his phone back in his pocket and sighs.

Honestly, this is the weirdest fucking week.

 

-

 

It’s late afternoon by the time Stiles finally manages to get away from work. Derek lives on the tenth floor of an apartment block across town. It’s a nice place, not too swanky, but a million miles more welcoming than the old loft or abandoned railcars that he used to inhabit.

Unfortunately, the elevator’s broken, and by the time Stiles makes it up the gajillion or so stairs to the apartment, Derek’s standing in the doorway waiting for him, arms folded across his chest. Stiles can barely speak, he’s breathing so hard.

“Oh my God,” he gasps, “so many stairs.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but stands to one side; Stiles staggers past him and collapses on the  couch.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Maybe not when I was on the lacrosse team,” Stiles wheezes. “Now I just stand behind a cash register or sit down at a desk. I need to exercise more.”

Derek’s doesn’t answer. Stiles lifts his head, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Ugh.

Rude.

At least his couch is comfortable though. Seriously. If Stiles closes his eyes he’ll probably be asleep in-

Derek reappears carrying a steaming mug of coffee and holds it out. Stiles scrambles to sit up and takes it gratefully.

“You’re the best fake boyfriend ever,” he moans. He takes a sip and feels the caffeine reactivate all the dormant parts of his brain. “This is amazing. How did you know I needed this?” Which reminds him: His mysteriously tidy apartment. He clears his throat, aiming for casual, “By the way, when did you leave last night?”

“I’m making cassoulet, is that okay?”

Truthfully, Stiles isn’t sure what that is. He shrugs. “Sounds good. Uh- but, last night,  I somehow ended up in my own bed, did you-”

Derek disappears to the kitchen.

Huh.

Stiles gets up and follows him. “Did you tidy my apartment for me after I-”

“There’s apple pie for dessert.” 

Stiles can see that. It’s cooling on the counter, and it looks delicious. In fact the whole room smells wonderful. Stiles’ stomach growls. He makes an executive decision to let the guerilla apartment cleaning slide in the face of this new, more pressing revelation.

“Dude,” Stiles says, looking around in amazement. “How did I not know that you’re basically werewolf Martha Stewart?”

“Please,” Derek snorts scornfully, adding a pinch of salt to a pot with a flourish.  “If I’m anyone it’s werewolf Julia Child.”

“If you say so,” Stiles says, “but why didn't I _know_?”

It’s a heartfelt question that is destined to unanswered.

He can’t complain though.

Derek feeds him up, proper food, with vegetables and everything. Stiles is so full and dozy and content by the end, he worries he’s going to slip into some kind of food coma. When he mentions this to Derek, he’s immediately herded  to the couch, where they spend two hours lying down and cuddling, _fucking cuddling,_ while they debate the merits of Zack Snyder as a director.  
  
For the most part it’s less awkward this time, probably because they had so much practice yesterday. Case in point, when Stiles’ fingers accidentally slip under Derek’s t-shirt, grazing against bare skin, he thinks he may have gone too far, but Derek  responds by rubbing his stubble against Stiles’ neck in a way that sends little jolts of electricity zinging down his spine and makes heat pool in his groin. Stiles figures maybe he got away with it, that this is all just what they do now.

Which is fine. Sort of.

Except it’s not long before Stiles is nursing a semi. The only thing that stops him from tipping over the edge into full blown boner territory, is that he’s too tired and too full of food. So, he angles himself away so that nothing is digging into Derek, who must be able to smell what’s going on, but politely doesn’t mention anything.

All in all, it’s good. Painfully so. It’s as if they’ve always been like this. As it they always _should_ be like this. Curled up together, talking, bickering gently. Stiles trying to see if he can coax a hard won smile from Derek.

Night is closing in when Stiles finally disentangles himself from Derek so he can go home. He stands by the door, idly wondering if he should try and kiss Derek goodnight. Nothing too extreme, just a peck on the cheek. It feels like it would be right. Natural. Like it’s the next step.

At least, it feels that way right up until the point when Derek presents him with a bag containing a couple of used t-shirts. “You should wear them,” he says, “for the whole scent-marking thing. It’ll help.”

“Oh.” Stiles says, his stomach sinking like a stone. “Okay. Should I- y’know, return the favor?” He manages to smile.

Derek shrugs. Nods. Looks away. And just like that it’s awkward all over again.

Fuck.

“I need to work on my folklore paper tomorrow but I could bring a shirt over at lunchtime.”

“You should come over and work on it here.” Derek says, addressing a patch of carpet to the right of Stiles’ foot. "My uh- my internet connection is faster and I can cook again. Besides, we need to make sure the apartment smells right.”

Which is like, at least thirty percent bullshit, because it isn’t like Stiles needs a faster internet connection to write a paper, and he’s pretty sure Derek knows that, but the scent thing, well, that could be true.

He sighs. This whole thing is getting out of control. He’s spent years trying to protect their friendship from his own feelings, now all the lines are blurring. The last twenty-four hours have been a window into what a relationship with Derek would be like, and the more Stiles sees the more he wants, and the more he wants, the more he realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. He should put a stop to this. Should come clean, explain that as much as he wants to help, Derek needs to find someone else. Someone who won’t get so confused. Someone who will be satisfied with being ‘just friends’ after this is all over.

“Stiles?” Derek’s looking at him, now, earnest and anxious, which is an unnatural look on him. It makes something twist tight in Stiles gut.

Stiles nods numbly. “I’ll be there, big guy,” he says. “And thanks for tonight. It was fun.”

Stiles doesn’t kiss him goodnight.

Doesn’t lean into him and hug him, even though he wants to.

Instead he turns and trudges down the corridor, down the stairs and home, his chest aching.

Because this is almost everything he’s ever wanted, but none of it is real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this. It's equal parts fluff and nonsense, but I can't resist a good ol' fake relationship. Sorry about the slightly angsty ending to this chapter, tis the nature of the trope I'm afraid. I promise the actual fic will have a happy ending though <3
> 
> I have a deep and abiding wish that someone would show me they love me by doing all my housework, so that's basically wish fulfilment on my part *sigh*
> 
> Next chapter due on 17th
> 
> Also, I am on [tumblr](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/), come and say hi!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaccck

When he arrives home that evening, Erica and Boyd are tangled together on the couch making out, while Criminal Minds plays on the TV in the background.

Ugh, just what he needs: A happy couple. Sometimes it feels like his life is filled with Happy Couples™. Erica and Boyd, Scott and Kira, Allison and Isaac, his dad and Melissa, the list is endless, and here he is stuck pining for a guy who only wants to _pretend_ to date him.

He stomps through to the kitchen, raids the the cupboards for snacks, finds a bag of Bugles that needs eating, then decides to make himself some cocoa. It’s difficult to make cocoa obnoxiously, but somehow he manages, opening and closing the kitchen cabinets with a bang, slamming his mug down on the counter with extreme prejudice and muttering viciously under his breath the whole time.

He doesn’t want to deal with Boyd and Erica tonight, figures he’ll just sneak back through to his bedroom, but when he leaves the kitchen, they’re no longer wrapped around each other, instead they’re sitting side by side, waiting for him. He feels a sudden sting of shame, just because his love life is a washout doesn’t mean he should ruin their evening, but, then he reminds himself that they were _literally_ just rounding second base on the goddamn couch which is kind of obnoxious when you remember they’re werewolves with enhanced senses who must have known he was about to walk through the door.

“You okay?” Boyd asks.

“I’m fine.”

Erica snorts derisively.

“I _am!”_ Stiles insists.

She rolls her eyes.

“Well, maybe I’d feel better if I didn’t have to come home and find you two _canoodling_ on the couch. I mean come on guys.”

“Uh! Hypocrite!” she says.

“What?” Stiles flails, nearly dropping his cocoa. “How?”

“Like you don’t know.”

“Know what?” he says, stung. “There’s nothing to know!”

Boyd says, “The whole place stinks like you and Derek.”

“But _especially_ the couch,” Erica says with a wicked grin.

“But?! That-” Stiles sputters, “We never- Oh my god, we never even kissed!” They stare at him unblinking. “Seriously! That isn’t- we may have _had_ to hug. A bit. Okay, a lot. But there were reasons, okay? It wasn’t-”

“Calm down,” Erica says. “We get it, your maidenly virtue is still intact.”

Stiles bristles. “Maidenly virtue? Really? You’re so-” he casts around for a word that will demonstrate the full scope of his indignation. He can’t find one. “-sexist.” he finishes lamely.

Erica flips her hair over one shoulder and stares him down. “That wasn’t sexist and stop being a prude.”

Stiles jabs a finger at her. “Prude? My virtue hasn’t been intact for years. _Years._ ”

“Really? Because-”

“What do you mean _had_ to hug?’” Boyd says, interrupting both of them. “Like someone made you do it.”

“I-” Stiles stops, he’s not sure what to say. He’s not sure what he’s _supposed_ to say. Derek hasn’t specified what they should tell the pack.

“Oh my god, was there some kind of supernatural emergency that forced you two to hug?” Erica asks, eyes lighting up with amusement. “Really? What was it?”

“Magical Artifact,” Boyd says.

“Demon,” Erica suggests.

“Cursed by a witch.”

“Glued together by Kappa slime.” Everyone winces. River nymphs are the worse, and Kappa slime is surprisingly sticky.

“Look guys, enough with the crazy-”

“I’ve got it! Sex pollen,” Boyd says, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Sex pollen?” Erica gapes at him. “Is that a thing?” She turns to look at Stiles. “Is sex pollen a thing? Is it real? Have you been holding out on us?”

“Oh my god, stop it, both of you!” Stiles says, throwing his hands up in despair. “Enough with the lame ideas! Derek asked me to, okay? Some old family friends are visiting and he told them he was dating, so he asked me to _pretend_ to be his boyfriend. That’s it. That’s all. The hugging was about trying to get the scent right, because they’re going to be here in a couple of days.”

They stare at him blankly. “And your saying _our_ ideas were lame?” Erica says, wrinkling her nose. “Sex pollen would have been better. Pretending to date, really?”

“Sounds like the plot of a bad movie,” Boyd agrees, he picks up the TV remote and starts flicking through the channels.

“Hey! My life is not a bad movie.” It is though, and he knows it. He just can’t decide if it’s low budget horror or a sappy romance. The only thing he’s sure of is, he’s not the lead. Which means he’s either going to get killed off halfway through, or be the witty best friend of the main love interest. Either way, he’s alone.

Stiles takes a sip of his cocoa and pretends to watch the TV, but he can feel Erica’s eyes on him. When Boyd gets up to go to the kitchen, she pauses the TV and turns to him.

“Stiles, are you sure pretending to date Derek is a good idea?”

“I’m sure it’s none of your business,” he says pissily, before he can stop himself.

“Fine,” she snaps. “Sorry for _caring.”_

He deflates a bit at that. She means well, it’s just, well, he really doesn’t want to talk about this. “I’m sorry,” he says, after a long moment. “It’s been a shitty day.” He cups his cocoa in his hand and feels the warmth of it seep into his fingers, it’s strangely soothing.

“Apology accepted and uh- look, if Boyd and I overstepped-”

“It’s fine. Honestly. I’m not very good company tonight is all. I think I better go to bed.” He stands.

“But-”

“Please can we drop it?” he says. “Just for tonight?”

She studies his face, and must see _something_ there, because she nods.

“Okay,” he says, “Right well, I’m going to go to bed.”

“Night,” Boyd calls from the kitchen.

“Stiles-”

“I’m fine, Catwoman,” he says giving her shoulder her squeeze as he walks past. “Seriously.”

And they both know he’s lying, but she doesn’t call him on it.

 

-

 

He wakes the next morning, gut twisting with anxiety and anticipation. He empties the bag Derek gave him last night out onto his bed and stands there staring down at the t-shirts before finally, reluctantly, picking one and slipping it on. Even to his non-wolf nose it smells good, cedar and sage and something indefinable that just belongs to Derek. He sighs and buttons one of his own plaid shirts over the top.

There’s no point in getting sentimental about it.

It is what it is.

 

-

 

He isn’t surprised when Erica accosts him later that morning as he stands in the kitchen, eating Applejacks out of one of the newly clean cereal bowls. She hops up on the counter and watches, eyes narrowed; inhales deeply, then makes a face.

“Jesus,” she says, “You _really, really_ smell like-”

“Nope!” he says, waving his spoon in her direction. “I demand olfactory privacy.”

She throws her hands up in defeat. “Fine.” She sighs. “Look, I know you don’t really want to talk about this, but I’m your friend, and that means sometimes I have to ask difficult questions. Are you really okay with this Derek thing?”

“Would I have agreed to it if I weren’t?” he asks. Which isn’t an answer, but if there’s one skill he has finely honed, it’s how to talk to werewolves so they can’t catch him in an outright lie.

Erica rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

“Really?” he says, scraping the bowl and shoveling the final spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “How do I look at him? Enlighten me.”

“Like he’s your one true love. Your sun and stars. Your lobster.”

“Is that right?” Stiles scoffs. He turning away to rinse the bowl and the spoon off in the sink, but he can feel a blotchy blush spreading up his chest.

“I know you, Stilinski, so you can stop with this bullshit, okay? You don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I’m just letting you know that I’m here for you, and also telling you not to be a self-sacrificing idiot about things. I kinda like your stupid face, it bums me out when it’s sad.”

And he’s been kind of cranky with her recently, but when she says shit like this he feels his little Grinch heart grow three sizes. “Fine,” he says, giving her a reluctant smile.

“And don’t hurt Derek.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Oh my god, I literally _just_ told you not to be an idiot.”

“ _Self-sacrificing_ idiot,” he grumbles.

“Fine, I amend that. My advice to you _and_ Derek is: ‘Don’t be idiots.’” She reaches out a hand and pats his cheek. “I know it’s difficult for you both.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re a sucky liar,” she grins impishly. “I’m serious though, be careful. And remember, you can tell me anything, okay? I won’t judge.” He side eyes her, hard, and her grin widens. “Okay, I will _probably_ judge, but I’ll try _really_ hard not to let it show, just for you, because I love you.”

“You are a terrible friend and an awful human being.”

“It’s cute that you keep trying to lie when I can hear your heartbeat.” She hops down off the counter and tugs him into a bone-crushing hug, plants a smacking kiss on his cheek. “Now, I have to get to work. You-” she points at him, “make good choices.”

“Yes, _mom,”_ he says, but he’s smiling in spite of himself.

 

-

 

Stiles spends another half hour finding little ways to procrastinate, washes the dishes, changes into a different shirt, sorts all the breakfast cereals into alphabetical order. It’s nearly nine when he finally, reluctantly, packs his laptop into a bag, along with all the other things he’ll need at Derek’s.

He isn’t sure how he feels anymore. He simultaneously wants to be near Derek all the time and also spend the rest of his life locked in his bedroom, hiding under his comforter and never speak to anyone ever again.

The thing is, Stilinski men are all the same. One and done kind of guys. When they fall, they fall hard and they fall forever. When he was younger, Stiles had figured that Lydia would be that person for him. He’d always noticed her, obsessed over her, idolized her, really. Placed her high up on a pedestal.

Of course in his junior year at High School, Scott became a werewolf and two things happened. He met Derek and he became friends with Lydia.

The friendship with Lydia developed slowly but surely over a couple of years, until she wasn’t some distant dream that he could never reach, but a real flesh and blood person, just the same as anyone else. Somewhere along the line, he let go of the idea of her he’d been holding on to, and embraced the person she actually was as his friend.

Of course, at the same time all _that_ was happening, he fell in love with Derek.  He still isn’t sure how it happened. At what point attraction, bickering and low grade antagonism morphed into, ‘ _I would burn the world down to keep you safe, and sacrifice anything to see you smile,’_ but it did. The thing is, unlike his feelings for Lydia, he’s under no illusions, he sees Derek, his bravery, his determination, his insecurities, every foible and flaw, and he loves _all_ of it.

Completely.

Inexplicably.

It sucks.

Maybe it would be different if Derek felt the same way.

Maybe it would be different if Derek dated. Maybe then Stiles could draw a line under things and move on.

Derek doesn’t date though.

He remains tantalizingly single.

What’s worse is, he’s mellowed over the years. All that righteous anger and fear melting away to reveal a gruff, tender-hearted guy with a wickedly dry sense of humor.

Stiles never had a chance.

He sighs, gathers his things and hefts them out to the car.

He just needs to fucking pull himself together, that’s all.

He turns the key in the ignition and the jeep’s engine sputters to life.

He makes the short drive across town in no time at all,  drags his feet as he climbs the stairs to Derek’s apartment and this time, Derek isn’t waiting for him so he has to knock.

It takes a little while for Derek to open the door, and when he does, he’s wearing sweatpants and a threadbare tank-top, hair soft and messy, slightly flat on one side, like he’s just gotten out of bed.

In that moment Stiles aggressively hates his life.

“Am I too early?” he says, averting his eyes. “You said to come round, so, here I am. I can go if you want.”

“S’fine,” Derek mumbles, stepping to one side to allow Stiles in. He yawns, scrubbing a hand over his face. Then his nostrils flare and he stills, gaze sliding over to Stiles. He scents the air again. “Are you? Are you wearing my shirt?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, you told me too, so-”

Derek blinks at him, mouth slightly parted, “Right, of course.”

“I brought you a shirt too. I mean, it probably won’t fit, but-” Stiles holds out the bag to him and, after a beat, Derek takes it.

Stiles rooted through his linen basket for it this morning. After all, the shirts Derek had given him were ones that had been used, so he’s working on the assumption that he needs to reciprocate. This shirt is his favorite, soft blue plaid, a little bigger on him than it needs to be. Whether or not it will fit Derek is another question.

Derek peers into the bag and stares down at the shirt.

“I’m gonna make myself a drink.” Stiles says, “You look tired, go back to bed. I’ll just putter round here and set up my laptop, rub my scent all over your furniture or whatever. It’ll be fine.”

That seems to startle Derek out of his daze, he shoots Stiles an amused glance and pads back through to the bedroom. Stiles kicks off his shoes, unpacks his stuff and then spends some time searching the kitchen for snacks and trying to work out how to use Derek’s coffee maker. He manages to brew himself a coffee, grabs a packet of Craisins and sets up home on the couch with his laptop balanced on his knees.

He’s just re-reading through his paper, reminding himself where he needs to make edits, when Derek returns, still dressed in his sweatpants and tank top, but now wearing Stiles’ shirt over the top.

It’s possible Stiles heart stops in his chest at the sight of him.

Everything about this is un _-fucking-_ fair.

Why does everything have to look so good on Derek? Why?

With the muscles and the plaid and the scruff he looks like a goddamn lumberjack.

Like a sexy lumberjack, who Stiles wants to climb like a tree.

Wait… does that work? Can Derek be both a lumberjack _and_ a tree? Is he mixing his metaphors?

Fuck. He’s so distracted. He’s never going to finish this paper.

If he writes anything today, it’s going to be a thousand word essay on the way Derek’s arms fill out his poor shirt.

What did he do to deserve this?

How is any of this _allowed?_

The truth is, there isn’t much between them height wise,  but Derek is broader in a way that stretches the soft plaid taut about his shoulders, he’s rolled the sleeves up so Stiles can make out the corded muscles of his forearms. His hair is still soft, touchable, like all he’s bothered to do is brush it, it’s not styled like it sometimes is, and the scruff- well, it’s obvious Derek hasn’t bothered to shave in about a month.

He looks soft and strong, sleep-rumpled and sexy as hell. It’s so confusing.

Stiles doesn’t know whether he wants to pet his hair or lick him all over.

Both.

It’s probably both.

He realizes he’s staring and takes a sip of his drink. Looks away quickly. He can feel a blush spreading over his cheeks, needs to say something.

Anything.

Literally anything at all.

Anything would be better than this.

“I-It,” he stutters. “It fits.”

“Yeah,” Derek glances down at the shirt,  lips tugging upward in a smile.

“I wasn’t sure it would.”

“There isn’t _that_ much difference between us.”

Stiles snorts, “Please, even your muscles have muscles.” Derek rolls his eyes, and Stiles continues, “I am never going to be able to wear that shirt again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Derek scowls.

“I’m serious,” Stiles insists. “You may as well keep it. After being worn by you, it won’t want to come back to me. It’ll be the the clothing equivalent of dating down.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, you’re all,” he waves a hand in Derek’s general direction. “And I’m-”

“You’re?”

“Uh- Not.”

Derek’s scowl deepens. “That isn't true.”

Stiles shrugs. He isn’t going to try and argue it. What’s the point? He  ducks his head and tries to go back to editing his paper.

It’s difficult though.

Derek is still there, and Stiles can feel his eyebrows judging him.

He makes it maybe ten minutes, during which time he reads the same paragraph eight times and can’t remember a thing. “What?” he says, frustration making him snappish, “It’s really difficult to work with you glaring at me like I just killed your puppy.”

Derek glowers.

“If you want to say something, then say it. Otherwise, I need to work.”

Derek sighs. “What you said before,” he says, eventually. “About yourself. You shouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Put yourself down, you’re all-” he waves a hand, mimicking Stiles’ earlier gesture.

And it takes Stiles a little while to catch on, but when he does he can’t help the strangled laugh that escapes him. “Dude,” he says, “Come on now.” Because he’s a pragmatist, okay? He knows he’s decent looking, but he’s pretty sure Derek could be a model if he wanted to.

“You are,” Derek says. “You’re- I mean- You’re-”

“I’m-”

Derek takes a deep breath. “Attractive-” His mouth is all pinched, like having to say the word is physically painful for him.

“Jeeze, Der. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I mean it, you’re attractive,” Derek repeats mulishly, a faint blush high on his cheeks. “A-Anyone would be lucky to have you. Privileged, even.”

Stiles mouth falls open. He gapes. _Gapes._ He has no words. He is _agog._ “Are you sure you’re not possessed?” he says eventually.

Derek glares pissily at him.

“I mean,” Stiles continues, “ it isn’t like I’d get a straight answer from you if you _were, but-_ seriously, dude. We’re not in the same league.”

Derek’s jaw sets stubbornly, “Yes we _fucking_ are. There’s no such thing as ‘leagues’ anyway, it’s all bullshit. You’re attractive. Get over it. Besides, it isn’t about what someone looks like, it’s-” he casts around for the right word, “who they are. You- you’re-” he glares, like he’s expecting Stiles to understand, or maybe use his words for him, which isn’t going to happen, although Stiles thinks he may finally get what Derek’s trying to do in his own, emotionally stunted, way.

“Aw dude. That’s really sweet of you. Consider my ego boosted.”

Derek scowls. “That isn’t-”

“No, I get what you’re doing. It’s sweet. Being all protective Alpha, looking out for your pack. Grrr.”

“ _Stiles_ -”

“Look, I promise I won’t put myself down anymore, okay?” Stiles says, anxious to move past this particular bout of awkwardness and on to whatever fresh new awkwardness awaits them. “But I really, really need to get this paper written today, okay?”

Derek opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but then closes it again, and nods jerkily, eyebrows still bunched together in a frown. “Fine.”

Stiles turns back to his laptop, to try and finish work, and after a long moment, Derek grabs a book and settles down to read in the armchair opposite.

And it takes a little while for the awkwardness to dissipate, but once it does, it’s nice, cosy. Sitting there together in silence, enjoying each others company.

Stiles could get used to this.

 

-

 

Once he starts work, Stiles manages to get a surprising amount done, and he’s just finalizing his bibliography when he looks down at realizes it’s lunchtime and there’s a smell. A delicious smell. A bacony smell, emanating from the kitchen. Also, Derek is nowhere to be seen.

He saves his work, puts his laptop down and goes to the kitchen to investigate.

Which is where he discovers that Derek has made the most amazing BLT’s. Thick, juicy bacon, crisp lettuce, sweet tomatoes all on fresh bread. They’re perfect. Which is exactly what Stiles tells Derek as he crams mouthful after mouthful into his head, spraying crumbs everywhere.

Truthfully, Stiles hasn’t been fed this well in… his forehead crumples as he tries to remember. Okay. He has never been fed this well. Not ever. He crams more food into his mouth like a starving man, licking bacon grease from his fingers with relish while Derek hovers over him. “You want more?”

“There’s more?” Stiles says hopefully.

“I can make more. It isn’t a problem.”

“Well, I mean if you have spare food that you need to use up-.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but it’s unmistakably fond. He turns back to the skillet and adds more bacon. Stiles sighs and tries not to ogle his ass.

Life is hard.

 

-

 

Later Stiles is standing by the sink, washing the dishes. He insisted, it’s only fair after all, Derek’s cooked twice for him in the last twenty-four hours. Derek putters about, putting ingredients back in the fridge and cleaning the counter. It’s all hopelessly domestic in a way that makes Stiles’ chest ache. He wants this. Exactly this. He wants lunch dates with Derek, and chores together, and happy domesticity. Is that too much to ask?

He shakes his head.

He needs to stop thinking like this.

He’s here for one reason, and one reason only.

The meal, tomorrow, with Ellie and Carl.

He needs to remember that and not get too caught up in this charade.

“So do you think this will be enough, you know what we’re doing now?” he asks.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, we’ve spent a bit of time here, but have we done enough to make sure that they believe we’re actually a couple?”

Derek looks thoughtful, “The apartment smells like you. Like pack. I mean if they were to go into my bedroom they might notice that your scent isn’t-” his ears begin to pink. “But they have no reason to do that. It’s a non-issue.”

“And what about us- I mean do we need to be, uh, more, y’know.” He looks at Derek, willing him to understand so he doesn’t have to _say the words._

Derek stares, one eyebrow cocked.

Stiles sighs. “You know.”

“Apparently I don’t.”

“We’ve been super tactile for a couple of days, but we haven't been- I mean we haven't been _physical_.” Stiles knows his face is blushing. “Will they be able to tell?”

“Able to tell if we make out?” Derek’s eyebrows creep up his forehead. “Or have sex?”

Annnnd his humiliation is just about complete. “Either. Both. I don’t know. I’m not a wolf. I mean can you tell when Scott and Kira have been banging?”

“Yeah, maybe just after, if they haven’t showered or something. It’s more than that though,” and, oh god, now he’s blushing too. “It’s difficult to explain.” Derek plucks a plate from the draining board and starts to dry it methodically with a dishcloth. “Couples smell like each other, but not in the way you think. It’s more complex than just sex.”

“Huh, interesting, so I don’t need to jizz all over your apartment to stake my claim then?”

Derek fumbles the plate and it drops to the floor, shards of porcelain scatter everywhere.

They both stare down at it in shock.

“Fuck,” Derek says, blinking down at it, face pale except for two spots of pink high on his cheeks. “Don’t move, I’ll clean it up.”

-

That afternoon, Stiles manages to get more of his essay done. Derek’s quiet and productive, does a few chores, makes them both the occasional cup of coffee and reads his book.

When Stiles first saw Derek in the preserve all those years ago, he never would have pegged him as a big reader, but he devours books, reads more than almost anyone else Stiles knows.

It’s one of the many things Stiles lov- admires, about him.

Later that evening, Stiles insists on buying takeout, because he refuses to let Derek cook again, but he isn’t going to inflict his own cooking on them either. Derek agrees and afterwards, bellies full of Chinese food, they end up lying together on the couch, in what is fast becoming their usual position, scrolling through Netflix on Stiles’ laptop and bickering over what to watch.

“So, have we done enough?” Stiles says, once the opening credits to The Expanse start to roll.

“What do you mean?”.

“I mean, you never really answered before, do you think the apartment smells right?”

“It smells amazing,” Derek hums and then stiffens. “I mean it’s good-um- okay. Fine, I think it’ll be fine.”

Stiles lifts his head to look at him. Derek stares resolutely at the laptop and doesn’t meet his eyes.

Huh.

“Amazing?” he asks.

“It’s uh- the apartment always smells better with- uh- pack around.”

_Of course._

Stiles head sinks back miserably on to Derek’s chest.

One more day. One more day of this and then everything will go back to normal.

He just has to get through one more day.

He isn’t sure if he’s relieved or heartbroken.

“What about tomorrow, what time do you want me to come over?” he says, forcing his voice to sound even.

“They’ll be here at about one. So, before then would be good.”

“Oh, okay.”

There’s an explosion on screen, and they both turn their attention to the laptop.

“Thanks,” Derek murmurs, eventually.

Stiles lifts his head to look at him. “What for?”

“Doing this, I know it isn’t how you’d choose to- I know you don’t-” Derek’s forehead wrinkles in a frown.

And Stiles almost says, ‘It’s okay,’ or It’s no big deal,’ but he catches himself just in time. He’s fairly sure those words will register as a lie. Because it isn’t okay, and it is a big deal, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Wouldn’t have wanted Derek to ask this of anyone else. He’s got to say something though, Derek’s watching him earnestly.

“I’ll always have your back,” he settles on, because it’s true and it’s acceptable. It’s the closest he can get to saying ‘I love you,’ which is what he means.

“I know,” Derek says, softly, “I appreciate it.”

Not for the first time, Stiles wants to lean in and kiss him, but he can’t do that, so he takes refuge in humor instead.

“Well, what can I say? You're lucky to have me, I'm awesome.” He drops his head back down onto the warm expanse of Derek’s chest and feels Derek's arms tighten around him.

“So modest too.”

“Well, obviously.”

He can feel Derek’s answering laugh reverberating through him.

 

-   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Saturday, final chapter. The plot (such as it is) arrives to the party late, drunk, crashes it's car into the wall, starts a fight, pisses in the pool and then passes out on the couch in it's own---
> 
> Okay. Who am I kidding, this is just self-indulgent fluff, and we all know it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ain't War and Peace folks. Just fluff, fun and Sterek based shenanigans.

He naps for a little bit, doesn’t mean to, it’s just been that kind of day, draining mentally and emotionally. His eyes feel heavy and Derek is so freaking warm and snug, he gives off heat like a damn furnace.

When he wakes up, it’s dark outside. The room dimly lit by the dull flicker of the laptop, from where it still sits out on the coffee table. It takes him a little while to remember where he is, _who_ he’s with.

In his sleep he’s migrated so he’s pretty much lying directly on top of Derek, front to front, head resting on Derek’s chest. It should be uncomfortable, after all, they’re similar heights and the couch is a decent size, but it isn’t, like, a _giant’s_ couch or anything. Somehow it isn’t awkward though, somehow it’s good, cosy, _right_.

Derek is warm under him, one arm slung around Stiles’ waist. Stiles can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, easy, rhythmic, he’s probably asleep, although Stiles won’t know for sure unless he takes a look.

He doesn’t want to look though.

Doesn’t want to move.

Doesn’t want to break this spell just yet.

 _Jesus,_ Derek smells good.

If things were different, if they were like this because they were together, if it weren’t all just pretend, he would rub his face into Derek’s neck, scratch his patchy stubble there, bury his face in and just breathe.

He doesn’t do that.

He can’t.

That’s not what this is.

But he thinks about it.

Gives himself a few seconds to imagine what it would be like.

Which is a problem, because he’s kind of half-hard now. And maybe he could kind of get away with _waking up_ with a boner, that’s a natural physiological thing that happens to guys everywhere, but _lying_ here, awake and aware and developing one because of how good they smell together, how Derek feels under him, how close they are? Noooo way. That is not an option.

He needs to move.

Just…

Maybe a couple more minutes.

Or if he just tilts his hips, just so, so he’s angling it away from-

Derek’s arms tighten around him, like he knows what Stiles is thinking and disapproves.

The motion forces them closer together, brings the more interested parts of Stiles into even closer proximity with Derek, and that does nothing to help the situation. Nothing at all.

He doesn’t have a choice, he’s just gonna have to try and extricate himself. Which isn’t ideal, but what can he do?

He lifts his head a little,  takes in the sight of Derek, sleeping, face open, relaxed. Jaw slack. Eyes closed.

He’s beautiful like this. Obviously he’s kind of painfully beautiful all the time, Stiles has pretty much made his peace with that, and it’s beside the point anyway. Derek’s beautiful not only because of what he looks like, but because of _who_ he is, because of what this whole situation here _means_. After all, there’s nothing more vulnerable than falling asleep with someone, right? Willingly losing consciousness, because you feel safe next to them, because you _trust_ them.

That’s how far they’ve come in a few short years.

And Derek may never be _in_ love him, may never be interested him romantically or sexually, but they have this, they have trust and friendship, and that’s huge.

He wants it to be enough.

He has to try and _let_ it be enough.

He watches Derek’s pulse flutter in the hollow of his throat, the dark sweep of his eyelashes against sharp cheekbones, his lips dry and a little chapped.

 _I’d do anything for you,_ Stiles thinks fiercely, and his chest aches.

He has to get out of here.

He has to move before he does something he’ll regret.

Needs to sneak out and go home before he wakes Derek up. He’s still pinned by Derek’s arm though, and while he manages to find purchase on the couch and push up on his hands a little, lifting his head and shoulders, unless Derek moves his arm he’s not going anywhere. Maybe if tries to slide out from-

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice is scratchy with sleep.

Stiles stills, chances a look down, and finds Derek blinking up at him curiously. He hadn’t realized how close their faces were until this exact moment. So close he can feel the puff of Derek’s breath across his cheek.

Close enough to count his eyelashes.

Close enough to kiss.

“I-uh-” he stutters, his eyes flick helplessly down to Derek’s lips and then skitter away quickly to the laptop, the coffee table, something else, something _safe_. He can feel his dick straining against his jeans, and Derek must be able to feel it too.

_Shit._

He wants to- he _needs_ to-

“Stiles?” Derek says again, softer, uncertain. His fingers tightening in the fabric of Stiles shirt. “Are you okay?”

“I-” his brain has stalled. He’s dimly aware that he needs to get out of here, that he needs to leave before he does something incredibly stupid, but his body feels heavy, limbs leaden, like Derek has his own gravitational field that draws Stiles is and won’t let him go.

His eyes flick down to Derek’s lips again, and, before he has time to process what he’s doing, he’s leaning closer, head dipping down, his body acting without his conscious permission, until they’re close, so close, lips hovering a breath away from each other, breathing the same air.

“I- uh-” he blinks, gaze flicking up from Derek’s lips to his eyes. He doesn’t know how to interpret what he sees there, Derek’s pupils are wide, watchful, like he’s waiting to see what Stiles will do next. Maybe Derek wants this too, he thinks to himself, desperately. Maybe Derek wants this and if he just screws his courage to the sticking place, leans forward and takes a chance, tomorrow they can meet Carl and Ellie and it won’t have to be pretend. It could all be real.

Maybe he should just do it.

Maybe he should lean in that little bit more, just like this, close the gap between them and-

The shrill sound of Derek’s phone cuts through the stillness startling them both. There’s a second where they both stare at each other. Then Stiles launches himself off the couch away from Derek, stumbles to his feet, promptly trips over the power supply for his laptop and sends the whole thing crashing off the coffee table  to the floor.

“Shit!”

Derek’s already on his feet, phone to his ear.

“Hi, Ellie, how are you?”

“Shit,” Stiles hisses. He picks up his laptop and checks it over, blushing furiously all the while.

It looks fine. It’s probably fine. But he’ll check it out properly when he gets home. He closes it down and shoves it in his bag, gathers all his stuff together, tugs his coat on and shoves his feet into his sneakers treading the backs down.

He needs to get out of here.

He needs to leave.

Needs to get away and get his head straightened out before he manages to ruin their friendship forever.

“I’m gonna go,” he says to Derek in a low voice, jerking his thumb toward the door. “I’ll come round tomorrow, at lunchtime, yeah?”

“Okay, sure, just a minute, Ellie.” Derek says to the phone. He turns to Stiles, “Stiles, could we talk-”

“Tomorrow, okay? I have to go,” he says and then he’s out of there.

Gone.

And he doesn’t look back.

 

-

 

When he gets back to the apartment, Erica’s sitting on the couch, alone, wearing sweatpants and a ratty Arcade Fire t-shirt. Her hair tied up in a messy knot on top of her head. She’s watching Drag Race and painting her nails bright pink. The room stinks of acetone and there’s a make-up bag open on the table with a bewildering array of nail polish, strange looking implements and a pair of very tiny scissors.

Stiles dumps his bag in the corner, toes off his sneakers and goes to sit next to her on the couch.

“You were right,” he says.

“Of course,” she hums, applying nail polish expertly to one perfectly manicured nail. Then, “About what exactly?”

“Me. Pretending to date Derek. It’s a bad idea.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Oh, that. You didn’t follow my advice then?”

“Which advice?”

“The advice about making good choices and not being an idiot.” She holds up one hand and examines her nails, pleased. “What do you think of this color? It’s called Iced Bubblegum.”

“It’s nice,” he says morosely.

She sighs and shakes her head. “You know what the worst thing about being a werewolf is? This looks amazing,” she says, still admiring her nails. “But it’ll only last until the next shift, then as soon as I shift back, I gotta do the whole thing again.”

“Really? That’s the worst thing? Worse than wolfsbane poisoning or hunters or supernatural-”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay Chuckles. Time to cheer you up. You want a manicure? It might make you feel better.”

He shrugs and she pats his knee. “Sit round a little, and give me your hand. Then tell me _all_ about it.”

He shuffles back a bit, brings his legs up to sit cross-legged and then reaches his hands out, she, reaches out and takes hold of it, examines it, then tuts. “You have great hands, but your cuticles are shit, and you need to moisturise.” She leans over and grabs a bottle of something from the coffee table. “So, what happened at Derek’s?”

He sighs, and lets himself be soothed as she massages his hand with something that smells fresh and clean and slightly floral.

“I nearly kissed him.”

“Yeah? Cool.”

“No. Not cool. The opposite of cool. _Un_ cool, in fact.”

“Why, what happened? Did he pull you away, throw you on the floor and tell you never to do it again?”

“No. Why?”

“Uh- no reason.” She clears her throat. “So, what happened?”

“His phone interrupted us, and then I realized what I was doing, and that it was a terrible mistake, and that I came about _this close,”_ he pinches his thumb and forefinger together, “to ruining our friendship forever.”

Erica cocks an eyebrow. “Always so dramatic.”

“I don’t know why I talk to you.”

“Because Scott is currently with Kira, travelling around New Zealand or Fiji, or wherever the hell they are this week. Because you know I give good advice. Because despite all the drama, you actually want someone who talks straight and doesn’t take any of your bullshit. Am I anywhere close to the truth?”

He scowls.

“Look,” she says, releasing one hand and taking the other. “I don’t get what the problem is. So, you like Derek, he seems to like you too. Why don’t you just go for it?"

“Because, I don’t just _like_ Derek-” Stiles trails off, because he’s never said this out loud before. Never admitted it. Even though he feels like it’s obvious sometimes. Like everyone must _know_ how he feels about Derek.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m in _love_ with him,” he flushes. “You were right, yesterday. He’s it for me, my lobster, or whatever.”

“That’s great. You should _tell him_ that.”

“It isn’t that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Because, what if he hates me?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“But-”

“People don’t hate other people because they develop _feelings._ Worst case scenario here, he doesn’t feel _that_ way about you, which, by the way, I think is _unlikely._ But even if that happens, at least then you know where you stand. You can start to move on with your life. Maybe things are a little awkward between you for a while, but you both still _like_ each other, you’re both still _friends_ and _pack._ That won’t change.”

“But-”

“You just told me you’ve been in love with him for three years. He deserves to know that, if for no other reason than he needs to know he can’t ask you to do this kind of shit again. It isn’t fair on you”

“It’s my fault, I should’ve just said no, but-”

“But?”

“It’s difficult, okay? I didn’t want to let him down.”

“You didn’t want him to pick someone else,” she says shrewdly.

“Ugh, you’re the worst. Fine. That too.”

“Tell him how you feel.”

God he hates it when she’s right. “You tell him,” he says sulkily.

She rolls her eyes. “We’re not in kindergarten anymore.”

“But Erica,” he whines, “he talks to you, maybe you could ask him how he feels so I can get an idea-”

“Stiles, I love you, but I am not playing go between for you two. You are both adults, and I already invest enough emotional labor in this pack. I refuse to do any more.” She lets go of his hand and starts to pack her stuff away. “I’m gonna go to bed, I have work in the morning.”

“Buuut-”

“Wear the red button-up tomorrow,” she says. “And those skinny jeans we picked out the other week that make your ass look good. That’s it. That’s the extent of my involvement in this train wreck.”

She gets up, grabs her stuff and packs it in her make-up bag then ruffles his hair as she sweeps past, and he sinks into the couch miserably.

He’s dreading tomorrow.

It’s gonna be awful.

Fuck. Why is he such a colossal fucking fuck-up?

He stares down at his hands, dolefully.

At least he’s a fuck-up with decent nails.

It’s important to look on the bright side occasionally.

 

-

 

He can’t settle to sleep that night. Spends the night tossing and turning, replaying the evening over and over again in his mind.

It’s nearly five am before he finally manages to drift off into a restless sleep.

 

-

 

**> Stiles**

**> Where are you?**

**> Did something happen?**

He fumbles for his phone as a succession of texts come through. Blinks down at them in confusion.

That’s when he notices the time.

It’s past midday, and he’s overslept.

He scrambles out of bed, legs tangling in the sheets and falls gracelessly to the floor. Staggers to his feet, manages to make it to his closet without tripping again. Has a minor panic attack over what the _fuck_ he’s going to wear, but then remembers his conversation with Erica last night and grabs the jeans and the red shirt, which are both hanging up, and not screwed into a ball on the floor, proving he _can_ adult successfully when he really, really needs to.

His phone pings again. He doesn’t even bother to read the message, just hits the call button while he tugs off his pajama pants and tries to force his legs into the skinny jeans.

“Stiles,” Derek says, voice edged with concern.

“I overslept,” he says, phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder, as he hops around on one leg trying to pull on the stupid freaking jeans. “I’ll be there soon. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Okay-”

He drops the phone. He doesn’t mean to but he’s trying to do up his zipper without catching his dick in it, and the phone slips to the floor with a clatter. By the time he picks it up again, Derek is gone. He’s half-way through mis-buttoning the shirt when he realizes he’s forgotten to put one of _Derek’s_ shirts on underneath.

It’s a disaster, a fucking disaster. He’s gonna be late.

_Shit shit shit._

By the time he’s dressed, brushed his teeth and tried to sort out his hair, he _knows_ he’s unforgivably late.

He all but runs to his jeep, turns the key in the ignition and peels away in a screech of rubber.

 

-

 

He sprints up the stairs to Derek’s apartment, he feels like the shirt on his back is sticking to him. Perfect.

As he gets to the top of the stairs he can see the door to Derek’s apartment standing open, waiting for him.

“Sorry!” he calls. “My alarm-”

“You must be Stiles!” A tall middle-aged woman with flame red hair stands in the doorway, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a smile.

“Yes. I- That is- uh- me. You must be Alpha Harris.” He says wiping his sweaty palm on his jeans and then reaching out to shake her hand.

“Please, Ellie’s fine. We’re all family here.” She beams at him, bright and warm. “Oh, look at you! I’m so pleased to finally meet you, after all this time.” She steps forward, ignoring his hand and pulls him into a tight hug, clutching him so hard he can feel his ribs creak. He gets a mouth full of hair.

She lets him go and Stiles takes a deep gulp of air. “This is my husband, Carl.” She gestures behind them, and Stiles turns slightly to see a tall, man with dark hair and warm brown eyes.

“Nice to meet you, son,” he says, sticking out a hand. “We’ve heard a lot of good things about you.” Stiles notices intricate tattoos decorating his forearms.

“Thanks, you too, uh-” he looks about himself nervously, “where is Derek, exactly?”

“Here.”

Stiles wheels round to see Derek standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded. “H-Hey, there you are,” he stammers, feeling suddenly shy.

He should have texted Derek last night, tried to smooth things over. If he hadn’t overslept, maybe he could have been here earlier, taken Erica’s advice and actually talked things through.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

It’s too late for that shit now.

Derek looks good though, in his slate grey henley and dark jeans. He isn’t wearing the plaid shirt, and Stiles thinks, belatedly, that he should have brought a tank-top for Derek to borrow, because the plaid was never going to be smart enough for this.

He’s aware that Ellie and Carl are watching them curiously, which is when he realizes he and Derek are just standing there.

Staring at each other.

Not saying anything.

Or hugging each other.

Y’know, like a normal couple would.

He takes a couple of steps forwards, sees Derek’s eyes widen slightly as he stretches out his arms and pulls him into an awkward hug.

Slowly, Derek’s arms come up around him and hold him tight.

“Sorry,” Stiles breathes, quietly into Derek’s ear.

Derek sighs, “It’s okay.”

And when they’re like this, it feels like it might be okay, like he could just whisper the truth, whisper, ‘ _I love you,_ ’ into Derek’s ear, and maybe he would whisper back, ‘ _l love you too._ ’ And it would all be _fine._

“Awww, look at you two,” Ellie coos. And just like that, the moment’s over. They break apart, and Stiles can _feel_ himself blushing, heart skipping in his chest.  “I need a picture,” Ellie says. “We need to take one of you two looking so handsome together, so that I can show the kids, maybe put it on the wall at home. Where’s my phone?”

They stand there tense,  close, but not touching. Watching while she hunts down her phone and then herds them where she wants them.

“Put your arms around each other,” she says, fussing around them. “Derek, look at Stiles, we don’t want the glare from your eyes spoiling the photo. Smile, sweetheart. Stiles don’t look so nervous, I don’t bite. Much.”

There’s the click and the flash goes off. She scowls down at it. “Oh, no. We have to do that again. You look like you’re both waiting for the dentist-”

She tries a couple more times, can’t seem to get the shot she wants. In the end it’s Derek who ends it, makes his excuses so he can get back to the cooking.

“Do you need a hand with anything?” Stiles asks, desperately.

“He’ll be fine,” Ellie says, before Derek can answer. “You come sit by me. I want to hear all about you.” She shoos Derek into the kitchen and then shepherds Stiles to the couch. “So, Derek tells us you’re double majoring in folklore and psychology, is that right?”

“Uh- yeah.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Very much.”

“Such a good combination of subjects, especially if you intend to be emissary at some point. It’s such an essential role, and I know there’s some controversy in packs about the emissary being the alpha’s mate, but we’ve found it to be a real benefit.”

Stiles forehead wrinkles in a frown. “Ummm. I’m not sure-”

“Derek was saying that you’ve been practicing magic.”

“Uh- a little. I can manipulate mountain ash, I know a little here and there, nothing too-”

She smiles, eyes shining. “Derek says you’re doing really well. That you’re a very quick study and you’ve got a lot of natural talent, very resourceful. Before you got here he was telling us that you're the one who worked out how to get rid of those leprechauns last week.”

“Leprechauns are evil,” Carl says, with feeling.

“Oh, and the incident with the chimera a few months back," Ellie continues, "I remember he said you came up with the strategy for that one. He’s always saying how amazing you are at research.”

“Well, uh- I mean that’s- It wasn’t just me-”

“Awww, so modest,” she says, patting his knee. “He’s so proud of you. I remember when he first started talking about you, oh, how many years ago was it, Carl? Three? Four?”

“Three and a half.” Carl says, taking a seat opposite.

“Three and a half, that’s right. And at that point I’m not sure you two were getting along all _that_ well!” She winks at him. “But even _then,_ there was always _something_ when he talked about you. It was always Stiles this or Stiles that-”

There’s a clatter of a pan in the kitchen and the muffled sound of swearing.

“Are you okay, sweetheart? Do you need a hand?” Ellie calls.

“Fine," Derek croaks.

Ellie leans in, conspiratorially, “You know I never said anything to him about it back then, but I knew. I just _knew_ how he felt, even then, and I thought to myself, it’s only a matter of time. But you know, that boy is _sooo_ stubborn, I mean, I don’t need to tell _you_ that! For a long while, we wondered if he would _ever_ make a move and then when he finally said you two were dating six months ago, we were so _relieved_ -”

“Stiles, can I speak to you for a moment?” Derek’s hovering in the doorway awkwardly. The tips of his ears are scarlet. Stiles looks between Derek and Ellie his mouth hanging open.

“Um-” He looks between Derek and Carl and Ellie, and then back to Derek again. “Sure. I’ll um- be back in a sec-” he says with an apologetic glance at Carl and Ellie.

He follows Derek through to the kitchen, and Derek closes the door behind him.

“Derek,” Stiles hisses, “What is-”

Derek places a finger to his lips, eyebrows bunched together in a severe line.

He beckons Stiles across to where there’s a little dry erase board with a shopping list on it, and a marker pen dangling from it by a string. He grabs the pen and writes in big bold letters.

_SHE CAN HEAR YOU!!_

“I know that ass-” Derek shoves the pen at him and stabs a finger at the board.

Stiles glares, but takes the pen and writes jerkily:

**Six months? What the hell???**

Underlines it multiple times and shoves the pen back at Derek.

Derek bites his lip and looks down. He _almost_ looks contrite.

 _Sorry,_ he writes, eventually.

Stiles glares at him, willing him to write more, because ‘Sorry’ is not an explanation dammit.

Derek doesn’t say anything though, just stands there, awkwardly. Wringing his hands. Stiles sighs in disgust, rubs the at the marker pen with his hands until it’s gone, then says loudly. “Hey, Snuggle-bunny! Where are the best napkins? Are they still in the closet in your room?”

He takes Derek by the hand and drags him through the door. “Sorry,” he says, “Napkin emergency, you know how it is, would you keep an eye on the food for a second? Thanks.”

And he drags Derek to the only room in the house that he knows for sure is soundproofed: The bedroom.

Once the door closes behind them. Derek sighs.

“Derek, what is going on? When you got me involved in this harebrained scheme, you made it sound like this was some spur of the moment thing, like you told them you were dating _someone._ As in, _anyone._ Just to get them off your back. These people think _we’ve_ been dating, _specifically_ , me and you, for six months! You didn’t think _that_ was worth mentioning?”

Derek shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“No. No. I feel like it _is_ a big deal. A huge deal. An _enormous_ fucking deal.” Stiles kicks the side of the bed viciously.

“Stiles-”

“Why wouldn’t you _tell_ me? Don’t you _trust_ me?”

Derek shuts his eyes, exhales shakily, then says, “I do. I do trust you. I just- I didn’t know how.”

“Did they even try and set you up with someone?”

Derek looks away. “They started saying they would if I didn’t-”

“If you didn’t what?”

“Make a move. With you.”

Stiles goggles in disbelief, mouth hanging open. “But- but- why didn’t you tell them you didn’t like me like that?”

“Because…” Derek says softly, after a long pause. “They would know I was lying.”

Stiles sits down heavily on the bed. “I-I don’t understand. You _like_ me _._ You liked me six months ago. Is that what you’re saying?” He squints up at Derek.

“I know this isn’t what you want, okay. And I should have been more up front. About everything. I just, I didn’t know where to start. And I was terrified that if I told you everything I would ruin our friendship, and it didn’t seem like a big lie at first. I didn’t realize they’d be here and want to meet you at Christmas. I just figured, at some point I’d tell them we’d broken up and they’d let it go.”

“What do you mean, ‘This isn’t what I want?’” Stiles says, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“I mean, I know _I’m_ not what you want.”

Stiles stands up, suddenly furious again. “You’re an idiot.”

“Stiles-”

“You have the EQ of a goddamn grape. You’re not what _I_ want? You’re _everything_ I want. _Jesus._ How do you not know that?”

“But-” Derek stares at him in amazement, then his face creases in a frown. “Every time I even mention the possibility of an _us_ , you tell me I must be concussed, or possessed or- or- mind-controlled. Every. Single. Time.”

“You must be able to smell it on me,” Stiles says, cutting in.

“Smell what?”

“The goddamn arousal. Stop being so fucking obtuse.”

“Okay, so you smell a bit horny, you _always smell_ that way, whenever I see you. Literally, since that first day in the preserve all those years ago. That’s just how you smell.”

“Have you considered that I smell horny when you’re there, _because_ you’re there?” He flails. “And the boners I kept getting during all our ‘extra contact’ recently, I can’t wait to _hear_ how you justified them.”

“You’re a pretty direct guy, Stiles,” Derek says, crossing his arms defensively. “When you liked Lydia, you told her, you told _everyone._ I figured if you liked me, you’d let me _know._ Besides, I can’t see inside your head, okay. It’s a sense of smell, I’m not reading your Lisa Frank diary. I don’t know who you’re thinking about when you’re-”

“You!” Stiles all but shouts. “I’m thinking about you! And your stupid perfect face, and your stupid perfect heart and your stupid perfect everything.” Stiles jabs him in the chest with his finger. “I’m so freaking gone on you that I’ve not dated anyone in _three_ years, Derek. Three _goddamn_ years. I’m basically a monk. I’m two steps deballing myself with a spoon and becoming a eunuch, because I’m so fucking _stupid_ over you, you oblivious jackass, that I can’t even _think_ about dating anyone else.”

Derek looks a little stunned. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Stiles collapses onto the bed, sitting, head buried in his hands, all his anger expended as quickly as it came.

There’s a long silence, he can _feel_ Derek’s eyes boring into him, can hear the step he takes towards him.

“I didn’t know, Stiles.” Derek drops to a crouch in front of him. “I swear, I didn’t know. You never told me, you never acted like you _wanted_ that from me. Not once, in all these years.”

Reluctantly Stiles lifts his head to meet Derek’s eyes. “No,” he admits, “I know that. I didn’t want to pressure you. I- I know your previous relationships haven’t exactly been great, and I didn’t think _you_ wanted one. With anyone. I figured that if I made some huge romantic declaration, you would be uncomfortable, and I just- I just wanted to be there for you, in the way you needed me to be. So-” he shrugs helplessly.

Derek smiles, soft and fond. “We’re both idiots.”

“But mostly you-”

Derek shrugs. “Sixty-forty.”

“Seventy- thirty.”

“Fine.” Derek leans forward a little. “Can I- Can I kiss you now?” he asks. “I really want to do that before we go back to Ellie and Carl.”

“Who you talk to about me a _lot._ ” Stiles says, smirking.

Derek attempts to muster a scowl. “Who I talk to about you _a lot,”_ he concedes. “Because I love you.”

The smirk slides off Stiles’ face and his mouth falls open.

“I- I love you too,” he says eventually, “You have no _idea._ ”

Derek smiles bright and wide and beautiful. A smile that Stiles has never seen before, not once in all these years, like it’s been hiding away, waiting for the right moment. Maybe, waiting for him, for this, for _them_.

“We are going to be so happy,” Stiles says with certainty. “Oh my god, we have to spend Christmas together, you have to meet my Dad!”

“I’ve met your Dad.”

“Yeah, but not as my boyfriend.” Stiles grins. “He’s gonna give you the talk, he’s gonna-”

And Derek leans forward and silences him with a kiss. Soft, warm and insistent. Stiles can’t help the moan that escapes him, opens his mouth and sinks into it, happily.

Best Christmas ever.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks! That's it. I hope you enjoyed this ridiculous Christmas fluff and Sterek shenanigans. They're a touch too oblivious in this really, but dammit, I do like a really tropey fic... what can I say? Merry Christmas to you all!
> 
> In other news I will be uploading my Sterek Secret Santa entry to AO3 on boxing day, once the reveals have been made, so keep an eye out for that.
> 
> Also, I am on [tumblr](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/), come and say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who leaves kudos and comments. You are the fuel that keeps this fandom burning bright.


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